


Hero

by Xazz



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Crying, Death, F/M, Templars, cemetary
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-02
Updated: 2012-07-02
Packaged: 2017-11-09 00:24:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/449185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xazz/pseuds/Xazz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Desmond visits Lucy's grave after waking up from the Animus.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hero

It had been a bit of a struggle to get here. The others had tried to tell him no. No, he wasn’t allowed to go. He was still tired. He shouldn’t be walking around. He needed to rest, let his mind re-coop from his time in the Animus.

They didn’t want him to see her.

His father…

Ha, that was a laugh. Father. William hadn’t really been his father in over a decade. He didn’t deserve that title. Not any more. Not after what he’d done. Not after what he’d put Desmond through, not after what he’d put everyone through. He wasn’t even Bill, like Rebecca called him. Bill was a familiar name. He wasn’t familiar to Desmond.

 _William_ had said he shouldn’t go because she’d betrayed them. Betrayed all of them.

There were few things that had been more satisfying in Desmond’s life then punching his old man in the mouth for that one. Then he’d just walked out. Shaun had tried to stop him for about fifteen seconds before giving up and went to help Becca with William. Or maybe keep William from following him. He didn’t know. Either way he didn’t meet any resistance as he left the building, an apartment complex somewhere in Rome, a middle district.

The skies were blue, the world hadn’t stopped. At one point he would have thought that an injustice. But now? He’d seen too much death, known too many who were gone. Someone dying meant nothing to the world, all it meant was to the people who’d known them.

It was getting dark when he found where his feet had taken him. He didn’t know where it was and he couldn’t remember getting there. He was just suddenly at the graveyard, looking in. The sun was starting to set. He found the newest plots and all the air left his body when he found the head stone he wanted. The sod was still fresh on the ground, having yet to merge properly with the rest of the grass, and there was a slight rise in the earth where the dirt had yet to settle.

He stood in front of the stone, at the edge of the rise, for a long time, just staring at it. His mind way blank and his entire body just felt numb and it took a while for him to really make sense of the words he was seeing on the tomb stone:

Lucy Stillman 

Aug 1988- Oct 2012

That was it.

Slowly, his legs wooden and mechanical, he walked over to the stone and sat down, his back to the side, looking at the plot next to this one. It was like this one in all ways, only there was a different body under the earth and a different name on the stone with a different set of dates. He rested his forearms on his knees wondering if he’d start crying.

He didn’t.

The fact that he didn’t upset him, more then where he was sitting his inability to mourn properly, like a fucking human being was _upsetting_. It made him angry at himself. Near furious in a way he’d never really been furious. But that passed, because he couldn’t hold onto anything long enough for even something like that to stick. It all just slipped through his fingers, because he couldn’t hold onto much.

He leaned back and the back of his head hit the stone, he looked up at the magenta and violet sky. The sun was setting and to his left the sky was turning indigo and soon would turn black. It grew dark and he watched the moon rise. He didn’t feel tired. He’d been sleeping for a long time after all.

“You know,” he said into the darkness, surprised by his own voice. “I never did get to say thank you,” he stared up and ahead into the night sky. The moon was a waning crescent in the sky like a half closed eye. “You’re one… were— were one,” he made himself say, “of the only people who really seemed to care about me,” he sighed deeply.

Then, as if he’d been waiting for this, he suddenly couldn’t keep back what he was saying. “I know they said you were a traitor. You were a Templar. That doesn’t mean much to me, you know? People can change, they _do_ change. I know that first hand. I’ve seen it,” his mind brought Maria Thorpe to his vision and it was like she was standing in front of him, dressed in white and mail, an armored cap covering her hair, pose defiant. Like a TV with bad reception, or like he was falling out of sync she glitched out of sight. “So. I don’t care. If you were an Assassin. If you were a Templar. It really… doesn’t matter now does it?” he ended softly.

He didn’t say anything for a long time and there was only the sound of the night insects for company. The moon passed overhead and slowly began to set. The sky was perpetual twilight because of the lights of Rome. Real twilight was starting to fade in from the east, the world turned rose colored and it was then that he realized he’d lost the feeling in his legs, having not moved in hours of sitting there on the ground. He continue to not move, because he didn’t see a point in moving right now. There was no point to it now. She was gone.

She

Was

Gone.

That was finally when he cried.

All he’d wanted, really, was to keep those he cared about safe, because he didn’t care about many people. He never stuck around long enough to make friends, always too busy running from ghosts, scared of his own shadow. So when he found people he cared about he wanted them to be safe.

He couldn’t even do that!!

He raked both his hands through his hair, sobbing into his knees and wished the ground would just swallow him up. He couldn’t protect her. He couldn’t protect _anyone_. He’d done this. This was all because of him. All because of who he was and what he was and the fact that he was special and that the two greatest secret organizations thought he _was something_ , something he never wanted to be. He’d wanted to be _normal_. But he’d never be normal. He was the most abnormal person in the entire fucking world because somehow, _somehow_ , he was supposed to be a hero.

A hero.

That was a laugh. He was no more a hero then William was a father.

How could he be a hero when he let one of the only things he cared about _die_? How could he be a hero when he’d _killed_ one of the only things he’d cared about?

He wasn’t a hero.

He couldn’t be a hero.

Because people like him weren’t heros. They were the sidekick. She was the hero because even after all the _shit_ he’d had to go through with the Assassins, the Templars… his father, she was still strong. And he wasn’t. He always ran away, he refused to deal with what was happening or had happened in his life. She was the hero and didn’t let anyone tell her who she was, what she would do.

The others said she was a Templar. So what?

So

What?

He realized he’d spoken that last bit out loud.

“Really,” he agreed with himself, his voice strangled in his throat, clawing at his mouth to come out. It was hard to speak, hard to see, hard to breathe. “So what,” he said to no one. “You’re still the bravest person I know,” he sat up and leaned against the head stone, it was cool from the night. The sun had crested the world, the light was golden and everything looked new, and seemed to shimmer from the dew.

He sniffed and wiped his nose and face with the sleeve of his shirt. Now he wished he would _stop_ crying. Before he’d been so angry he couldn’t. Now he just wanted to stop. Because crying didn’t make him feel any better, it just made him feel worse. “I’m sorry,” he told her. “I’m so sorry Lucy,” and he squeezed his eyes shut miserably.

He opened his eyes when he heard someone walking towards him. His head turned and he saw two men walking towards him in pale dark gray suits and black ties with red tie clips. His vision flashed. Red. Templars.

“I have to go now,” he told her softly and shakily got to his feet. Pain race down his legs as blood could reach his feet again. He ran his hand along the top of her head stone, it was cool to the touch. “I’ll come back,” he promised and stared at the men coming towards him defiantly. They were in no rush, they didn’t think he was a threat. Too bad for them Desmond was tired of running. “Wait for me,” and he stepped away from the head stone his hand slipping off the curve of the stone and flicked his wrist. His hidden blade shot out into the ready position.

He was so tired of running. He’d be the hero this time, because his was dead.

-fin-


End file.
